These - Where It All Started

Vanity Fair Lace Nouveau Nylon Brief

These were my first.  They were all that my mother ever wore.  (I suspect she still does.)  Which meant, of course, that there was always a pair or two available in her dirty clothes hamper.  How old was I?  I can't say for certain.  My memory of sneaking - yes - sneaking - into her bathroom and removing a pair of these exciting panties is strong.  I'll never forget it.  But my precise age, I cannot recall.  I do recall where I lived though.  And from that, I can say that I was seven or eight years old.  That much I'm certain of.

I can vividly recall the moment.  I sorted through my mother's dirty clothing.  I wasn't just looking generally either.  I knew what I was after.  And when I found them, my heart was racing.  Pounding out of my chest with excitement and fear.  Excitement over touching these shiny, soft, slick, nylon panties.  Fear of getting caught.

The questions I've asked myself over and over and over as an adult, reflecting back upon those first times, revolve around the initial draw to feminine lingerie.  I was just a little boy.  And my mother was no wild woman.  She was beautiful.  And still is.  But it wasn't as though I was exposed to overt sexuality.  But something made me, a seven or eight year old boy, want - no - need - to feel, smell, wear, my mother's panties.   That's right.  I sniffed them.  I was captivated by the unmistakeable scent of woman.  And, I still am, which probably explains why, when it comes to pleasing women, I am so much more comfortable doing it with my mouth than with my clitty.

The other big question for me is, how did a seven or eight year old boy know that it was wrong?  How could an innocent child know that it was wrong to sneak into his mother's dirty clothes and remove her underwear?  I couldn't know.  But, make no mistake, I knew.  I knew that a boy who did such a thing was no boy.  He was something else.  And we all know what that something else is.  I didn't have the vocabulary then to put a name to it.  But I knew what I was.  I knew what kind of boy stole his mother's nylon undies, sniffed them, and then put them on and wore them.  Put on multiple pairs so that the layers of nylon could be rubbed against each other, creating that feeling on my little boy penis that I have never stopped being drawn to.  Even now, as I type this, I'm wearing a pair of Vanity Fair Lace Nouveau panties.  Only now, I'm lying in bed next to my wife, and I'm also wearing a bra filled with breast forms and a pink Miss Elaine nightgown.

But then, when I did it the first time, and then the other times when I repeated my pilfering, I wasn't a boy when I wore my mother's panties.  I was a little girl.  That was what I felt.  That was how I saw myself.  I put on the panties, and immediately, the face I saw in the mirror wasn't a little boy.  It was a pretty girl.  I can even remember my mother's friends, and store clerks where my mom would take me shopping with her, saying how I was so pretty that I should have been a girl.  Coincidence?  I don't think so.  But I wasn't a girl then.  And I'm not one now.  I know what I am.  And have always been.

My taste in panties has far surpassed my first exposure to my mother's Lace Nouveau, but those were my first, and remain one of my favorites.  I read in a lingerie store ad that they are making a big comeback because they are great for women to avoid showing panty lines.  But I digress.

What was wired into my DNA at birth that made a little boy who knew nothing about such things to be drawn to wear his mother's nylon panties, and to know that it was wrong to do so?  How wrong?  I'd carefully remember where within the hamper I removed each pair from.  I remembered, roughly, how they lay.  And when I returned them, I was careful to put them back right where I found them - as if anyone who tosses their dirty underwear into a hamper actually marks the spot and would know - just know - if someone had moved a pair.  Shoot!  I still know it is wrong.  Otherwise, my family would know.  My friends would know.  My work colleagues would know.  That I wear panties all - of - the - time.  Every day.  The reason I don't let anyone know is that I don't want them teasing me.  Calling me a sissy.  Just like when I was a little boy.

It wasn't much longer after I took that first step that I was caught for the first time.  And when I tell about that, you'll understand how well I was taught just how wrong it was for a boy to where girls' underwear.  And you'll also understand just how strong the draw was, and still is, for me.  Because I never stopped wanting to - needing to - wear panties - and much, much more.